


shoot me, cupid. please.

by oh_no_oh_dear



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Domestic, Freebird - Freeform, M/M, Samsteve - Freeform, Valentine's Day, a tiny bit of violence, not quite a 5+1 but close enough, proposal, valentines 2k17, very little editing we post shitfic like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_no_oh_dear/pseuds/oh_no_oh_dear
Summary: As the wise Beyonce once said: "If you like it..."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trash4ficsaboutlurv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash4ficsaboutlurv/gifts).



    “I’m pretty sure he’s getting bored,” Steve said, chewing on his bottom lip.  
  
His whole posture spelled defeat as he slumped inelegantly against the huge stainless steel fridge in their kitchen. It had been the one expensive thing that Sam had insisted on when they’d moved in together, because Steve a) ate like a pack of teenagers and b) Sam had to either do the grocery shopping or go with Steve, and he didn’t want to have to go out every other day. Steve was bound to come back with something like 2 kilograms of kumquats, 5 packets of chicken bouillon and a few tubs coconut yoghurt because modern supermarkets were still a little bit overwhelming sometimes. Also, he was a cheapskate and bought any and everything on sale. Sam thought it was sort of sweet -- at least until the time apple sauce had been on sale (they currently had almost 3 months’ supply left over.)  
  
_“I can tell ya_ ** _I’m_** _gettin’ bored,”_ Bucky sighed into the phone. He’d been out of cryo for a few years and although he wasn’t technically _not_ a wanted man, the heat had died down significantly. And there were plenty of landlords in the city who didn’t ask question if you paid your rent on time, and in cash. Didn’t hurt that Bucky had cut his hair and shed some muscle, in addition to acquiring glasses to disguise himself a bit. Because he wasn’t an idiot. 

  
    “You know, I tore half the world apart for you, Buck--”   
  
_“Are you seriously doing the ‘I don’t ask for much, Bucky’ speech right now? For_ **_this_ ** _?”_   
  
    “Is it working?” Steve grinned ruefully, glancing at his watch briefly. About 40 minutes before Sam got home. Steve tucked the mobile phone between his ear and shoulder, awkwardly bending to pull a cabinet open.   
  
_“Did I just hear you open a cupboard door? You better not. No cookin’, Rogers. I mean it.”_   
  
    “But--”   
  
_“No.”_   
  
    “Just a simple--”   
  
    “ _NO.”_   
  
    “I can cook just fine, y’know.”   
  
_“Sam deserves more’n ‘just fine’ for putting up with you, Steve.”_   
  
    “You’re ri-- _hey!_ ”   
  
    Bucky heaved another sigh. _“Go over the damn plan again. I know that’s what’s eatin’ at you.”  
  
_

* * *

It wasn’t that Sam was _bored_. They were just… comfortable. That tended to happen when you’d been dating for almost 5-- no, 6 years ( _that_ had been a source of a huge argument; Steve counted ‘On your left’ from Sam’s Car Gets Fucking Wrecked [And Other Adventures] as their anniversary, whereas Sam counted from ‘Home is home, you know?’ from Tony’s Murderbot Fuck-up-palooza.) That was also 5 years of disastrous Valentine’s Days.

 

[Year 1]  
  
N/A, because they were Not Dating (Definitely Not, And Steve Most Certainly Couldn’t Draw Sam’s Smile From Memory NO SIREE) and looking for Bucky fucking Barnes a.k.a. The Winter Soldier a.k.a. “That motherfucker knows he still owes me a car, right?”   
  
They shared some beers and a Snickers bar, shivering in a blown-out office building in fucking _Edmonton_ of all places.

 

Steve asked Sam out while they waited to board their flight from Toronto to London. Sam said no, paused, hummed thoughtfully, and then said yes. They held hands under their tiny shared blanket for most of the 7-hour flight.  
  
  
  
[Year 2]   
  
Sam’s ex had called him, sloppy-drunk, and Steve had had to excuse himself at the torn up tenderness in Sam’s voice as he spoke to them.   
  
He hadn’t heard Sam tell them “No, baby. I -- I love you, but not like that. Not any more.”   
  
_“Issere someone else Sammy? Hanh? You love somebody else now?”_   
  
    “....Maybe. I don’t--”   
  
But when Sam glanced up, it was to an empty room. Later that night they moodily shared M &Ms and watched the news, Sam tense and unhappy, Steve aching and silent.   
  
  
  
[Year 3]   
  
Steve got shot in the stomach (this time it wasn’t Bucky, at least.) Sam spent February 14th sweating and shaking as he waited for reinforcements, keeping Steve clinging to life with his limited field kit. Steve was pale and shivering, his eyes overly bright as they struggled to stay focused on Sam’s face.   
  
    “Sam.”   
  
    “Save your strength, Rogers, I swear to god if you die mid-speech I’m gonna--”   
  
    “I love you.” The words were sickly, bubbly as Steve’s pale lips flecked with blood.   
  
Sam’s shuddering exhales were the closest he would allow himself to openly crying at the moment.   
  
    “Shit, Steve, wh-why you always gotta be so… big damn gesture about _everything_ ? Shit.”   
  
Steve tried to smile.   
  
Sam said it back, months later under the ugly white lights of the Raft.   
  
  
  
[Year 4]

  
They fell asleep on the couch, thoroughly fucked-out.   
  
Steve had gotten Sam 4 dozen roses, and they’d spent a few hours in the hospital as Sam had a violent allergic reaction to them.   
  
    “I didn’t think you _had_ allergies!”  
  
    “You forget I’m just a human, Rogers?”  
  
    “No-- st-- I’ve never seen you have a reaction to flowers!”  
  
    “When have you _ever_ gotten me flowers before now, man?”  
  
    “....oh.”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
Steve had taken a groggy Sam home from the hospital (a nurse named Claire had laughed herself sick at the fact that a superhero was felled by mighty roses [once she made sure he wasn’t dying, of course.]) Once he settled him on the sofa with some blankets and tea, he made to lay on the floor beside the couch-- but Sam was suddenly a lot more awake, gripping his hand.  
  
    “Steve. I appreciated the gesture, okay? The flowers were nice. Stop looking like a kicked puppy. C’mere.”   
  
They kissed at 2:17am on February 15th, but they still counted that one.

 

(“Can we just _forget_ about Valentine’s, please?” Sam opined late January, the next year. Steve agreed.)  
  
  
  
[Year 5]   
  
Okay, so Justin Hammer was a creepy, weasley, whiny little prick, and Tony growled as much as the hastily-assembled Avengers (and Bucky) corralled terrified citizens away from the dozens of rampaging Hammerbots.   
  
Hammer’s girlfriend had dumped him the night before, and if _he_ couldn’t have love, blah blah blah.   
  
    “These ‘bots fall apart a lot easier than your tech!” Steve shouted, easily punching clean through the chest plating of the machine in front of him.   
  
_“Ooh, careful, Cap. That was close to flirting, coming from you. Falc might get jealous.”_  
  
    “You can have ‘im,” Sam said dismissively over the comms. Tony pulled a face (not that they could see, because he was inside the Iron Man suit.)  
  
_“Pass.”_  
  
    “Oh, is that how it is, Sam? Sick of me already?” Steve asked teasingly, watching with pride as his boyfriend dive-bombed a pair of robots, shredding them with a few impressive aerial twirls.   
  
    “Damn right I am.”  
  
    “Then I guess you’re gonna spend Valentine’s alone in that big bed, Wilson.”  
  
_“Quit fraternising over the comms or I’m gonna let one of these things kill me.”_  
  
_“Ditto,”_ echoed Romanoff, Barton, Barnes and Rhodes. Sam rolled his eyes.   
  
Later, Sam and Steve ate cold pizza and then fell asleep before their pants were even all the way down.   
  
  
  
[This year]  
  
Steve’s pulse quickened as he heard Sam’s keys in the door and he almost dropped the phone twice.   
  
    “He’s here, I’ve gotta go,” he muttered.   
  
_“Good luck, buddy. I’m rootin’ for you.”_  


 

  
  
  
    “Okay, no burnt smell in the air… no death-bots… you didn’t get shot-- did you?” Sam called, wandering into the kitchen to put a few bags of delicious-smelling Chinese food on the counter. Steve bent to kiss him, making a small sound of surprise.   
  
    “Your lips are ice cold, Sam.”   
  
    “Yeah, it’s almost like it’s _February_ or something. Like winter is _cold_ or something.”   
  
    “Want me to warm you up?” Steve asked, bouncing his eyebrows lasciviously.   
  
    “Groan.”   
  
    “Did you just say ‘groan’ out loud? The _word_ ‘groan’?”   
  
    “Yes. Yes, I did. Tell you what, let’s eat, and-- you _sure_ you don’t have any disasters planned for tonight?”   
  
Steve’s pulse kicked up a notch, but he hid his nerves with a smile. He’d planned his non-plan-plan to a T.   
  
    “Nothing planned, Sam. Promise.” Steve pretended to remember - “Actually, I _did_ grab you a little something…”   
  
Sam looked, nonplussed, at the gas station box of chocolates and the little pink teddy bear holding a red satin heart embroidered with the words “I WUV U BEAR-Y MUCH.” He tried not to grimace. He failed.   
  
Phase one of the not-plan-plan was going smoothly.   
  
    “Thhhhanks, baby!” Sam said, smiling genuinely. The smile was real, but so was the pain in his eyes. Sam wasn’t a picky eater, except for a few things:   
  
A) Chocolate   
  
That was it. As far as Sam was concerned, Snickers and other cheap chocolate was for fuel only, not enjoyment.   
  
    “ _And_ ,” Steve said, enjoying his role far too much, “I got us some wine!”   
  
    “Oh?” Sam perked up a bit. It was incredibly difficult to get Steve drunk, so he was pretty good at choosing wines based on how good they tasted.   
  
    “Yeah. This one was on sale; I think it was less than $10 today!” Steve could barely contain his glee at the look on Sam’s face when he hauled out the box of wine.   
  
    “Ah. That’s-- thank you, Steve. Wine and chocolates! I feel so… spoiled.” Sam smiled again, this time a little pained-- but he suddenly relaxed a little, his smile melting into something softer. “Thank you, Steve. Really. This is thoughtful.”   
  
Steve blinked a few times, a little taken aback. Sure, he’d gone out of his way to have a ‘bad’ Valentine’s planned out so that the real surprise would be even better, but… here was Sam, holding bad chocolates and an ugly teddy bear, looking at Steve with deep brown eyes full of sparkling mischief and love.   
  
    “Let’s uh. Let’s eat,” Steve stammered, grabbing the takeout bags and reaching down some plates from the top cabinets. Sam just huffed out a laugh and opened the box of wine.   
  
    “This… actually isn’t half bad, Steve.”   
  
    “Got it in one.”   
  
    “I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”   


* * *

  
    “I forgot how many fucking fat jokes this movie had,” Sam grimaced, using his chopsticks to pop a piece of broccoli into his mouth. Steve was barely paying attention to the movie; he’d watched it at least 5 times to get the timing just right, and now he felt a little bit queasy.   
“I’m surprised you’re not grumbling about the representation of Americans in this movie,” Sam continued, glancing over at Steve.   
  
    “Well, it’s not like American movies always show Brits in the best light,” Steve murmured, anxiously watching the screen. Sam scoffed his agreement and returned his attention to _Love, Actually_ \-- the one romance movie that Sam would willingly watch more than once (even if he _did_ complain about the characters and plot for half the movie.)  
  
When the writer returned to find the love of his life at her new restaurant job, Steve stretched and ‘accidentally’ knocked Sam’s wine glass out of his hand.   
  
    “Shit!”  
  
    “Damn-- sorry, hang on-- pause the movie--”  
  
    “The _movie_? What about the carpet?” Sam said, hastily grabbing for paper napkins off the coffee table. Steve hastily knelt, examining the wine stain, but also trying not to panic. It was time.  
  
    “Hang on, I got a text.” He fumbled around in his jeans pocket, feeling his heart going a mile a minute, and then:  
  
For once on the godforsaken day that was Valentine’s Day, everything went _right_ for them.   
  
Sam let out an exasperated sound and reached down towards the carpet, just as Steve hit ‘send’ on his text to Sam and pulled something small out of his pocket. His fingers wrapped around Sam’s in one smooth motion before Sam had even gotten halfway towards cleaning the rug (there was something to be said for supersoldier reflexes.)   
  
Sam stared at the ring that had been suddenly slipped on his finger.  
  
He stared at Steve, who was looking earnest and pink and very nervous.   
  
Sam stared back at the ring. It was plain white gold, beautifully offset against his dark brown skin. Sam looked back at Steve, who was biting his lower lip worriedly.   
  
    “Is… this mine?” Sam asked stupidly. Steve burst out laughing, his tension finally giving way.   
  
    “I mean-- I’d like it to be,” he said, still chuckling softly. The smile slid off his face as Sam continued to stare at the ring.   
  
    “Wh--”  
  
    “Because you’re one of my best friends. And there’s no one that knows me like you. There’s no one that makes me _better_ like you. There’s no one I wanna make happy as much as you. There’s-- there’s no one I wanna take care of like you, Sam. No one makes me prouder than you, no one is as smart--”  
  
    “Tony? Riri Williams? Hell, wossername-- Moon Girl--”  
  
    “Shut up.”  
  
    “You can’t tell me to shut up during my proposal!”  
  
Steve grabbed Sam’s hand, the one bearing the gleaming ring, and lowered his head. He briefly pressed his lips to Sam’s fingers before continuing almost in a whisper:   
  
    “No one as brave, no one as good and noble and caring, no one like you. I’m… everytime I see you, I’m glad I woke up. I’m-- I’m not _happy_ I went into the ice, but, I’m… it let me meet you.”  
  
    “Jesus.”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
    “Wow.”  
  
    “Yeah.” Steve finally let go of Sam’s hand, daring to look up-- and was surprised to find the other man’s eyes brimming with tears.   
  
    “Don’t say a _word--_ ”  
  
    “I won’t. Sam. Will y--”  
  
    “Fuck, did I not say yes? Obviously _yes_ , fuck you for not knowing that,” Sam half-laughed, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.   
  
    “Really?”  
  
    “ _Yes_ , Steve. God, yes.”  
  
    “I-- really?”  
  
    “Ask me one more time and I’m changing my m--” Sam’s response was cut short as Steve surged forward and pulled him into a kiss. Sam laughed again against Steve’s lips, and if it sounded a little bit like a sob, Steve knew better than to say anything about it. When they pulled apart, Steve’s long eyelashes were a bit wet too (who knew burly men cried so much?)  
  
    “Did you see the inscription?” Steve asked, sniffling slightly. Sam shook his head and eased the ring off, tilting it to look on the inside of the band.   
  
    “You’re so fucking _cheesy_ ,” Sam exhaled, his eyes suspiciously bright. His voice was quiet as he read the inscription. “ _Sou bò gòch ou_. ‘On your left.’ How did you--”  
  
    “I asked your sister. She said this was pretty close.”  
  
Sam took a moment to close his eyes, overwhelmed at the gesture; Steve had given a little nod to Sam’s Caribbean roots, having the phrase that had started it all engraved in Haitian Creole on the ring.   
  
    “Big damn gesture, huh?”  
  
    “Anything for you, Sam.”  
  
    “Don’t get sappy, Rogers. And that was a nice little speech earlier--”  
  
    “Check your texts.”  
  
    “What? Why?”  
  
    “Just check ‘em.”  
  
    “That’s no way to speak to your _fiancé_ , but fine.” Sam’s face lit up as he tasted the word, testing it. Fiancé. Nice.   
“Okay. Here’s the text-- ‘ _Sam, don’t ask if I came up with that off the top of my head_.’ Damn, am I really that predictable?”  
  
    “Mhm.”  
  
    “Well, you caught me.”  
  
    “Thought I might. Can I get up now? Wine’s getting into my jeans.”  
  
    “Shit-- of course. Oh, god. We’ve got Sunday dinner tomorrow at ma’s.”  
  
    “I thought it might be a nice surprise for her…”  
  
    “Yeah, sure. I hope you’re ready for a lot of screaming and cheek-pinching and talk about babies.”  
  
    “What? Your mother isn’t pushy about grandkids.”  
  
    “No, but _Aunty Cherise_ is, and she’s coming tomorrow.”  
  
    “Aw, cripes.”

 

The time flipped to 12:00am on February 15th.  


* * *

  
Exactly 12 days, 9 hours and 21 minutes later, Sam was rooting around in his field kit, shaking his head.   
  
    “You see a spinning blade coming towards you and you try to high-five it, man? Really? _Really?”_   
  
    “It barely grazed me, Sam,” Steve muttered. It was true; Steve had moved backwards swiftly, getting a neat (but painful) slice that was already half-healed.   
  
    “Still. Don’t want it to get infected,” Sam continued, peeling off Steve’s heavy brown glove.   
  
    “I don’t _get_ infections, Sam.”   
  
    “I bet you say that to all the boys,” Sam muttered, wiping at Steve’s palm with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic wound gel.   
  
Steve groaned and laughed, glancing over as Clint and Rhodes updated him on the situation down the block (contained.) It had been a good battle-- clean, quick, no civilian casualties. Steve was looking forward to some strong coffee, a hot shower, and …

  
And…   
  
    “ _Ar thaobh do láimhe deise_ ,” Sam said softly, hesitantly saying the unfamiliar words. Steve felt like he’d fallen in love all over again as he looked down at his hand, the silver band that Sam had just slipped on his finger glinting in the sun.   
  
    “‘On your right,’” Steve breathed out. “You… you learned Gaelic?”   
  
    “Ah-- one phrase. That shit is too hard to learn in a weekend, man.”   
  
    “Sam… I gotta think about this.”   
  
    “Oh _real cute,_ Rogers. We’re already engaged, just say yes.”   
  
    “I dunno… this is a big commitment,” Steve continued, widening his eyes in a mock look of surprise. Sam flicked his palm, making him yelp slightly.   
“ _Je_ sus! Okay, yes. You put up a good argument, Sam. I’ll gladly become Mr. Steve W-- wait, am I taking your name?”   
  
    “I’m not taking _your_ boring-ass name, Rogers.”   
  
    “Wilson-Rogers?”   
  
    “Ennnngh, then we’d have to change the name on the lease, and then if we have kids--”   
  
    “Kids?”   
  
    “I said _if!_ ”   
  
    “We can combine our names?”   
  
    “Okay, Steve Wogers.”   
  
    “Never mi--”   
  
    “Steve Rolson.”   
  
    “You made your point.”   
  
    “Not sure I did, Steve Wilgers.”   
  
    “I think that one is actually a name.”   
  
    “Shut up.”   
  
    “ _Do you guys_ **_seriously_ ** _not see the UFO right above you?”_ Tony’s voice cut in, equal parts amused, irritated, and worried.   
  
    “Oh.” Steve and Sam looked up at the same time, Steve hastily yanking his glove back on.   
  
“We good?” Sam hopped up from his crouch, unfurling his mechanical wings with a practiced roll of his shoulders. He looked heroic. Unstoppable. And, not for the first time, distractingly handsome despite being covered in battle dust and grime.   
  
Steve couldn’t help it; he moved forward and kissed Sam, clumsy though it was with Steve’s helmet and Sam’s goggles back in place.   
  
    “I love you.”   
  
    “You’d better, Rogers. I love you too.”   
  
    “ _Know what_ **_I_ ** _love? Not being vaporized by flying saucers.”_   
  
    “Hold your horses, Iron Man, we’re coming.”   
  
_“Please don’t do that.”_   
  
    “Nasty, Tony.”   
  
A different voice cut in, less tinny and more tired-sounding.   
  
_“If you have a wedding, I vote for mango cake. Shit is delicious.”_   
  
    “Is that really what we oughta be focusing on right now, Buck?” Steve called, rolling out of the way of a blinding purple beam of light.   
  
    “Actually,” Sam yelled from nearby, “he’s right! We tried those little tarts at that French place the other day and the mango was really good--”   
  
    “Aw, geeze, I hate mango!”   
  
    “You want vanilla,” Sam and Bucky chorused. Steve made an outraged sound as he flung the shield at a weak spot on the alien craft; the satisfying _crunch_ and accompanying high-pitched whine of failing machinery told him he’d hit his mark.   
  
    “What’s wrong with vanilla?” Steve asked, frowning.   
  
Sam landed nearby, managing a pretty impressive three-point landing. He raised his goggles and aimed a theatrical wink at Steve.   
  
    “Clearly _I_ ain’t got a problem with vanilla, Rogers.”   
  
    “And I-- hmm, I feel like if I say something about ‘chocolate’ that’ll be … not-good.”   
  
    “Teeny-tiny bit fetishizing, yeah. You’ve learned well, fiancé.”   
  
    “Have I earned another kiss?”   
  
    “Lemme think… why not. I’ll take pity on you.”   
  
All in all, kissing your superpowered fiancé while your teammates groaned and gagged over the comms _and_ a downed hostile UFO exploded in the background was pretty damn romantic.   
  
  
  
(They got a mango wedding cake. Steve ate most of it.)  


**Author's Note:**

> For my friend, cos she yelled at me to write a Samsteve fic for Valentine's Day. It's not complicated and it's not long and THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID AYYYY. Any language mistakes are Google Translate's fault because I've never done anything* wrong in my life ok.
> 
> *excluding my whole entire life, that is


End file.
